


Meeting Fand

by Walutahanga



Category: Ninja Turtles: The Next Mutation, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 03:30:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2135427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Walutahanga/pseuds/Walutahanga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There once was a world where five mutant turtles crawled out of the ooze. A few people can remember it. Most can't.</p>
<p>(Or: where Leonardo and Venus both meet an old friend, but only one of them is recognized).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meeting Fand

_“…and the Druids gave him a drink of forgetfulness, so that afterwards he had no more remembrance of Fand nor of anything else that he had then done…and Manannan shook his cloak between Cuchulain and Fand, so that they might never meet together again throughout eternity…”_

**‘The Sickbed of Cuchulain' - English Translation**

* * *

It’s raining. The darkness doesn’t do anything for Leonardo’s vision, and neither does the water pouring in icy rivulets down his face as he crouches motionless beneath an awning. The cold has reduced the agony in his right arm to a dull, red pulse but his muscles are cramping from the cold. 

A distant whistle reminds him why movement is a bad idea. Across the street, two Foot ninja run quickly across a rooftop and disappear again. Half a minute later there’s another whistle, and two more appear on another rooftop further down. This has been going on for the past twenty minutes, with ninjas appearing and disappearing on different rooftops at random intervals. They know there is a turtle close by and are hoping to rattle him into revealing his position.

Leonardo could have told them it’s a pointless tactic; neither he nor his brothers survived New York by being easily unnerved.

The only thing that worries him is that it’s been half an hour since he saw Mikey dragged unconscious into the back of a van. Well, that and the sword wound on his shoulder. He hopes Donny and Raph make it back to the Lair without incident. It's been fifteen minutes since they were forced to split up and rescuing Mikey from the Foot is going to be difficult enough without having to rescue them as well.

The wind changes direction, and rain starts hitting Leonardo from a new direction. He grimaces, hunkering down. The mutation changed a lot of things, but he’s still a reptile and the cold is affecting him more than it would a human. His reactions are noticeably slowing and his thoughts becoming sluggish. If he doesn’t get out of the rain soon, he’s going to start drifting off.

As if to compound his problems, a light comes on in the house below.

Leonardo had been still before, but now he barely breathes as yellow light pours across the balcony beneath his hiding place. The glass doors slide open and a slim figure walks out, wrapped in a coat several sizes too big for her, hood tugged low to shield her face from the rain. He thinks ‘her’ because of the way she walks, the subtle difference in hip movement that helps differentiate human men and women. She does not look up, but walks a few steps forward until she is standing directly underneath Leonardo’s hiding place, looking across the street. He is absolutely still, hoping against hope that she doesn’t notice the too-dark colour of the water pooling at her feet.

When she speaks, her voice is so soft he can only just hear it through the rain.

“If a weary traveller required shelter, it might benefit him to know the upstairs window is open.”

She goes back inside and the light shuts off.

Leonardo crouches in the dark, weighing his options. If it’s a trap, it’s an overly elaborate one. The Foot wouldn’t bother luring him out if they knew where he was hiding. On the other hand, the Foot aren’t his only enemies.

Water trickles down the back of his neck and he decides to risk it.

He waits until the next whistle, and uses the window of time to scramble across the wall. Moving is painful, his limbs stiff and clumsy, and he is keenly aware that the Foot could start their next sweep any minute.

The window is open as promised, and Leonardo clambers inside. It’s disturbing how uncoordinated he is after just fifteen minutes in the rain. He closes the window behind him, unable to stop a sigh of relief as the cold breeze is cut off, and drags the curtains shut for good measure. Water drips onto the wooden floor as he flexes his limbs, trying to get some feeling back into his chilled flesh.

The sound of approaching footsteps makes him withdraw further into the shadows as the door opens.

It’s the girl. She has removed the coat and is wearing a plain white cotton dress, several clean towels folded over her arm. She peers blindly about the darkened room, eyes passing right over his corner without pausing, and lays the towels on a chair. She bends over a table with the lamp, and a moment later soft golden light fills the room.

She straightens and sees him.  Her eyes widen, hands flying to her mouth. She doesn’t scream, thankfully, but makes a small sound in the back of her throat that could be a sob or a laugh. He keeps very still so not as to startle her further.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says, spreading his hands wide to show his harmless intent.

She doesn’t seem to hear him, eyes bright and wet as they rove over him. She says something in a language he doesn’t recognise. It sounds almost reverent. As if unable to help herself, she steps closer, one little hand reaching out to touch.

He instinctively takes a step back – and remembers why that was a bad idea when his legs don’t work properly and he nearly trips over a chair.

“You are bleeding!” The girl says in anguished, accented English. “Where are you hurt?”

“Shoulder,” Leonardo grits out, holding onto the back of the chair and trying to keep himself standing upright.

The girl grabs a towel and hurries over, shaking it out to press against his wound. He steps back, wary, and she stops. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she looked hurt.

“You are safe in this house, Master Turtle,” she says. “The wards keep those of ill-intent at bay, and neither I nor my father would harm a guest. Now please, let me help you." 

It’s his lack of options that makes Leonardo finally allow her to steer him into the chair, trying not to show what a relief it is to get off his feet. The girl presses the towel to his wounded shoulder and ties it neatly to keep it in place. She presses the back of her hand to his neck, frowning.

“Too cold.”

“My kind run colder than yours,” Leonardo tells her, but she is already using the other towels to rub him down, wiping away the cold water and chafing his arms and legs with brisk, impersonal efficiency.

This gives him the chance to study her more closely while her attention is elsewhere. She’s of Asian descent, though he can’t quite place her accent. Long dark hair is pinned neatly back from a face that is very plain by human standards. For Leonardo, however, there’s something vaguely comforting about her broad cheekbones and small chin. It is, he thinks, faintly reminiscent of a turtle. Though she wouldn’t thank him for the comparison, it is the highest compliment he can give a human’s appearance.

Once satisfied he’s dry, she tosses the bloodied towels into a hamper and turns the thermostat up. Leonardo’s muscles relax even further as the room warms. She’d gotten just the right temperature: warm enough to be pleasant, but not enough to make his skin start dehydrating. He feels a little more alert and less like he’s watching events from a foggy distance. The downside is that the pain in his arm goes from a dull throb to a sharp stabbing agony.

The girl is rummaging around in a cupboard, muttering to herself. The language might be Cantonese or Mandorin, but Leonardo doesn’t know either well enough to tell. Her little feet are bare on the polished wooden floor.

“Why did you invite me in?” He says, partly to distract himself from the tooth-clenching pain in his arm. “I could have been anyone. I could have been planning to hurt you.”

“Could still be planning to hurt me,” she points out, carrying a first aid kit over and laying it on the ground near his feet. She sounds supremely unconcerned by the prospect. “If you need a reason for my actions, then know I have had dealings with the Foot Clan in the past and find them to be without honour or common decency. I would deny them their prey.”

“What dealings?”

She ignores the question, kneeling down and removing bandages and bottles from the kit. Leonardo leans down, catches hold of the package she's holding and waits for her to look at him before repeating:

“ _What_ dealings?”

“I fought them,” she says finally. “My family and I. Long ago.”

“Why?”

“We had our reasons.” She looks him in the eye and adds, with a hint of challenge: “As do you, I imagine.”

It is a pointed reminder that they are in a similar position of trust, and that he is a guest here. He lets go and sits back up with a pained sigh. She lines her supplies up with neat precision, labels turned to the front, packages turned to matching angles.

“Your arm needs stitches,” she says. “Will you trust my needle?”

“What choice do I have?”

She just looks at him with steady dark eyes, waiting for an answer.

“Yes,” he relents. “I will trust you.”

“Then if you will remove your katana, so that I may see better, that would be appreciated.”

He painfully draws his right katana and places it on the table beside him. The hilt is wet with blood and rain. The girl moves more carefully now, making no sudden movements as she stands and peels the towel from his bicep.

“You’ve done this before?” He asks between gritted teeth as she dabs something against the wound. He’s expecting the familiar burn of alcohol and is surprised when it doesn’t hurt.

“Many times.”  Her voice is distracted. “My father does not accept that he is old and is apt to throw himself into reckless situations.”

“With the Foot?”

“With many things.”

“For example?”

“Dragons. Demons. Once a vampire, though he doesn’t like to speak of that.” She makes this bizarre statement quite matter of factly. Before he can decide how to answer, she taps his wound and asks: “Can you feel that?”

“No,” Leonardo says, surprised. Whatever she’s put on his wound, it’s reduced the pain to merciful numbness. He furtively flexes his fingers, and finds nothing seems affected beyond the area she’s working on. “What was in that bottle?”

“Old family recipe.” The girl picks up another bottle and starts cleaning out his wound. This one smells sharp and antiseptic, and he’s glad he can’t feel it going onto his torn flesh.

He looks around the room properly for the first time and realises they’re in some kind of work room, with a mortar and pestle on the table, and a cutting board with bunches of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. There are old books in languages he can’t make out and what looks like a scrying crystal in the corner. He starts as his eyes meet those of a skull hanging on the wall. It’s oddly shaped, a little too long in the jaw to be human, the teeth a little too extended.

“What exactly do you and your father do?” Leonardo asks. 

The girl answers distractedly: 

“We are chi-users. Sorcerers, to use the English equivalent.”

“Sorcerers. Really.” His scepticism must show a little too much because she looks up and says sweetly:

“You are a giant mutant turtle. You do not get to call me make believe.”

He must give her props for rebuttal, even if he doesn’t believe any of this talk about chi.

“Is it exciting work?” He asks in a more conciliatory tone, which seems to appease her.

“Not always. A great deal of our time is spent in study, though people come to us on occasion for help.” She threads a needle carefully. “That is my father’s picture on the wall, above the door."

It’s a photo of her standing seriously next to an older man, both of them in traditional Chinese garb, her features echoed in his. There is an inscription in hanzi, then another in English: ‘ _Chung I and Mei_ ’.

“You look like him,” Leonardo remarks.  

“So people say. Do you look like your father?”

Leonardo’s lethargy dims in favour of wariness.

“What do you know of my father?”

For the first time, she falters.

“I just thought… everyone has one. You mean to say you do not?” She sounds distressed by the idea and he waves off her agitation, annoyed by his own suspicion.

“I have a father,” he says. “But to answer your question, no we don’t look alike. And it’s not a subject I feel comfortable discussing with you.”

“As you will.” He’s not sure if she pushes the needle in so hard because she needs to, or as a petty revenge. She works silently for nearly half a minute before adding quietly: “I had brothers once. That is why I ask. I know what it is to lose someone.”

Her voice is carefully empty, her eyes on her work, and against his better judgement, Leonardo’s heart softens toward her. He could not imagine existing without his brothers. It would be like losing a limb or an eye.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “How did it happen?”

“My brothers?” She finishes a stitch and starts a new one. “They are not dead. That much I can console myself with. But they do not know me. They do not speak my name and they would not recognise me if I stood before them.”

Her voice chokes off and she must stop to gather her composure.

“You cannot imagine, Master Turtle,” she says finally. “What it is like to stand before someone you loved so deeply it hurt, and have him look at you like a stranger.”

“No,” Leonardo admits. “I suppose I can’t.”

He wonders what really happened. He doesn’t believe all this chi stuff, so maybe it was some kind of shunning or rift within the family. Or… she mentioned dealings with the Foot. Perhaps her brothers had allowed themselves to be recruited. That would explain her bitterness towards the Foot and her willingness to help an apparent monster just to spite them.

There is silence between them while she finishes sewing him up. As she cleans her needle and puts her supplies away Leonardo inspects her work. Her stitches are small and neat; if he is lucky it might not even leave a scar.

“You do good work, Mei.”

There’s a clatter and he half-reaches for his katana before he realises that the girl just dropped the bottle she was holding. She’s staring at him with the same wide-eyed half-wild look she’d given him when he came in.

“You know my name?” She says, like she can’t quite get enough air.

“Yes,” Leonardo says, puzzled. He points. “It’s on the photograph.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders bow. For a moment she looks older than she is, bowed down with grief and sadness.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“It is nothing.” She picks up the bottles, putting them into the kit with more firmness than is strictly necessary. “Foolishness on my part. Such terrible conceit to think that you might…” She shakes her head. “Nevermind. I should have learned by now that certain things are no longer my own.”

Strange girl. But kind. Leonardo wishes he could help her get her brothers back.

He stands and walks over to the window. Feeling stronger already, he peers through the curtains. The rain seems to be easing up, and though he waits for several minutes, he can’t see any sign of the Foot. They seem to have moved on.

“I should go,” he says, turning back to Mei, who has put the first aid kit away and is taking several jars down from the cupboard. She doesn’t look surprised or offended, just nods as if that is what she expected.

“Take these,” she says, opening one of the jars and fishing out what looks like little plastic globes of powder. “Rub one into your wound every four hours. Immediately before you go to bed, and immediately after you wake. They will keep infection at bay.”

“Thank you,” Leonardo says, tucking them into his belt.  

“And this,” she adds, handing him the other, smaller jar, which has some sort of grey paste in it. “Will ease the pain and promote healing. Apply twice a day. Keep the wound covered and remove the stitches after four or five days. Do not scratch.”  She adds this so severely he has to smile. It’s like being threatened by a kitten.

“I will.”

“You had better.” Mei purses her lips, looking him over and asks: “Are you in need of weapons?”

Leonardo almost says yes out of sheer curiosity to find out what kind of weapon a ‘chi-user’ would use, but common sense stops him. No point in taking a weapon he isn’t trained to use.

“No thanks.” He picks up his katana from the table and sheaths it, careful not to move his arm too far and break Mei’s stitches. He bows to her. It’s a formal gesture that Spliner taught him, and one he thinks that Mei will appreciate more than April or Casey would. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mei. You have been very kind.”

“You have been a most welcome guest,” Mei says, returning the bow. “I did not anticipate who would climb through my window, but I do not regret having met you.”

Leonardo notes and appreciates that she’d said ‘who’, not ‘what’.

“Perhaps I will come back and see you,” he says and to his surprise, finds that he means it. After a few seconds’ thought, he decides there is no reason he shouldn’t. It’s not often he and his brothers find people that are not only un-phased by their appearance but also willing to help.

But Mei smiles and shakes her head.

“My father and I will likely be gone soon. We never stay in the one place for long.” She rises up on her tip-toes and startles him with the soft press of warm lips to his cheek. “Live a good life, Leonardo.”

Her accent rolls the words like a caress. He won’t realize until after he’s already left that he never told her his name.


End file.
